


Milktooth

by brittlelimbs



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Breastfeeding, Car Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Kissing, Lactation Kink, Mommy Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Pet Names, Possessive Behavior, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9058483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Ben’s stomach growls so loudly, so angrily, in 6th period biology that Mr. Calrissian actually goes ahead and calls him out on it.Or: Ben Solo has a very, very special relationship with his young, single mother, Rey.





	

**Author's Note:**

> aight folks. this is it. rock bottom. before you read, remember to mind the tags (i don't there's even a /tag/ on AO3 for mommy kink, but here it is); this is an AU in which rey is ben's straight up, biological mother-- i'd reckon she had him when she was about 14 or so, so that puts her at like, 30 for this. you've been warned. 
> 
> that being said: 
> 
> merry christmas, you filthy animals

Ben’s stomach growls so loudly, so _angrily_ , in 6th period biology that Mr. Calrissian actually goes ahead and calls him out on it.

The whole classroom goes quiet, like Ben’s shouted or something, gone all Columbine-wannabe, even, bolted up at his too-small laminated desk and screamed like a lunatic in the middle of class. That weird Solo kid: you’d think he’d shot somebody, right there in front of the damn Punnett Squares, big ‘B’s’ and little ‘b’s’, the whole of genetics laid linear between gridlines and gritty overhead projector slides. Blue-eyed babies. Red-haired babies. Ben hazards a look to his left, and Hux has a pale hand clamped delicately over his mouth, as if trying to stifle a laugh. _Prick_. To his right: Pava, eyes wide.

“Ben?” Mr. Calrissian— _call me Lando_ —is peering up from over his glasses, textbook propped open in one hand, felt-tipped marker poised in the other. _Shit._ Ben is frozen stiff-solid until, slowly, like a curtain unfurling, Mr. Calrissian cracks a smile; Lando’s always been the chill adult in everyone’s book, effortlessly cool, even for a teacher. _Don’t worry, man, I see you._

“Whoever you’ve got in there—“ Lando says, teeth white and perfect, “--sounds like they have some thoughts on my lecture. “

Ben blushes hot and twists in his seat as his stomach gives a little gurgle; there are twenty sets of eyes on him and not one of them friendly. He tucks his hair behind one ear, tries to make himself smaller. Suddenly, he’s aware of how broad this jacket makes his shoulders look and jams his hands under his thighs to make his bigness just a little less obvious.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and he means it. Lando laughs and it sounds like a spell being broken. Soon they’re skip-jumping right back on track with the nuances of alleles like he’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Ben’s nausea lingers. He’s swimming in a miasma of hunger and embarrassment, repenting not eating more than a banana and a bagel for lunch, _so stupid_ , when he realizes that Hux is talking to him, whispering out the sly corner of his mouth.

“What?” Ben asks, dazed. Annoyed.

“I said, do they _feed_ you,” Hux hisses again. “Do your parents give you anything to _eat_.” The cunt is facing forwards at prim, honor-roll attention, pretending to listen to Lando go on and on, and Ben’s face colors so quick that he can feel the heat in his cheeks.

“Don’t act like you know me,” Ben spits, hunkering down into the hasty scrawl of his class notes. Hux laughs under his breath and it sounds mean.

Ben suffers, starving.

 

Mama is always punctual. Sometimes Ben worries about her picking him up from school when she’s already got so much on her plate. Being a nurse practitioner at the local clinic doesn’t leave her near enough time in the day to spend with her son, and he hates the dark circles she gets under her eyes some days, too bruised for something so pretty. But they make it work. Schedules stretched and breaks worked in, always shaving off hours in between to spend time together. Ben can hardly stand it, still; straight up couldn’t when he was little. He remembers crying his way through day care, then preschool, then first grade, because time away from Mama was time spent sad. He gets it, now, that she needs to work. That every minute he gets with her is precious.

He gets that little thrill in his stomach when he sees their silver car parked at the curb outside the football field, their usual spot. It flips again when he sees that she’s singing along to the radio inside, head bobbing and lips murmuring the lyrics to some pop song Ben’s too far away to hear, ponytail pressing against the headrest as she tips her head back to belt the chorus. What Mama lacks in skill she makes up for with enthusiasm; it’s one of Ben’s favorite things about her. She works so hard.

Ben gets closer, and Mama waves when she notices him, reaching across to pop the little plastic nub of the lock and turn the radio down as he loads himself in. He’s instantly welcomed by her closeness, her scent like warmth, the compact, upholstered homeyness of their car. He can read the toughness of her shift on the frayed look around her eyes, the wisps of hair falling out of her ponytail and licking at the corner of her mouth. Makes Ben’s heart hurt. A quick look around, coast cleared, and he leans in for a half-guilty little hello-kiss. Mama hiccups in surprise, but she tastes and sounds pleased, like their amber-colored fall.

He lingers even though he shouldn’t, hazarding a look down: Fuck—she’s wearing one of his favorite tank tops, the simple, too-oft washed one that’s near translucent with age and makes her chest look full and soft; Ben has fantasies of her so swollen that she’s flirting at its low neckline, or spilling out of it, even, just too much to hold. Yeah, this top is Ben’s favorite—it’s gracious for feeding. He tongues the back of his teeth, swallows, tries to keep himself from drooling in earnest as he buckles himself in. He’s so hungry.

“How was school, baby?” Mama asks, looking over as she keys the ignition, music skipping for a second as the car wakes from idle into drive. Her arm draws in as she reaches across to peel them out, pressing her breasts together so perfect, and Ben makes no pretense at staring anywhere but the delicious vee of her cleavage.

He has to swallow again before he can speak, and the feeling is probably less mortifying than it should be, but he’s so hungry he’s aching and the car feels too hot from sitting in the sun so long.

“Alright. Boring,” he says. He can feel his cock going stiff against his denim inseam.

“Boring?”

“Yup.”

“Aw, Ben.” Mama reaches down and puts a tiny golden hand on his knee. Ben takes it in his own immediately, giving her room to rub circles on the back of her hand with her thumb. Air starts to feel a little more breathable. Mama means so much comfort, too, even as she makes him hurt and pine for things he probably shouldn’t. Ben’s grasp of right and wrong is only nebulous, at best.

Suburbs cruise by in streaky clumps of gold, orange, the brilliant burning of oak trees as they turn in autumn, boring neutrals of picket fences and siding. The stupid fucking town he and his Mama ache to leave but never will, because there’s no choice but to do it together. College a hazy and far-off thing, one day, maybe, but for now-- Ben’s stomach roars again and Mama looks up.

He sheepishly turns away to the window. “’M hungry,” he mumbles. His breath clouds on the glass, obscuring Fifth Street as it slides away. At once he feels her hand leave his and Ben quakes, for a moment, until he realizes it’s only to hit the turn signal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Mom—“

“Baby. When you’re hungry, _you tell me_.” Her profile is hard, brow drawn down. Ben’s heart thrills.

“It’s not—“

“I’m your mother. It’s my job.”

The tires scrape and crackle as she pulls them into park along the side of the road, nestled close to some shady divot between houses. A creek runs here, maybe.

Mama unbuckles her seatbelt, and it hisses across her body. “Come here, baby,” she breathes, crossing her arms and grabbing the hem of that loved-thin tank top, shimmying it over her head just like that, right there in the silty daylight filling up their little car. Ben is petrified. All that golden skin. Anyone could see. He probably knows kids that live in this neighborhood, sits next to them in Algebra, even, but then she’s letting the top slide from her wrists and into the footwell and he doesn’t care—he’s already reaching around her ribcage with both arms, skinny things, but stronger by the day, to slip the little hook-in-eyes of her beige bra undone one by one.

Her breasts: the most gorgeous things that Ben has ever seen in sixteen years, bar nothing, round and pert and perfect. His face heats to think of all the fucking pervs who must covet them. Brushing past her in the laundromat, spotting her in the produce aisle at the supermarket, slobbering and dreaming about slipping their cock between those tits to rut until they come all over her sweet chin, the gracefulness of her cheekbones. _His_ tits, that have been his since he was born, been his harbor, his comfort, his sustenance. The idea of someone else spilled all over Mama’s face makes Ben’s stomach roil in encouragement; she needs to give him this. This thing, that is his, and his alone.

“Here,” she says, cupping herself and folding closer across the console, as if offering him a pair of sunglasses, a stick of gum for a long road trip; they’ve done this in the car before, but never so openly. Her face is folded with concerted effort. She looks tired, but proud.

“Oh, Mommy—thank you,” he whispers, because he can feel the neighbors eavesdropping. He leans in to feast, anyways.

He kneads the pale, plush mound of her breast a little to help the first sweet mouthful along, hot, wet licks just so to make her nipple stiff and aching to be sucked; he’s got the methodology of tiring his Mama out this way down to a science. Her hand comes down in his dark hair as he purses his lips and starts to suckle, grasping a little at his nape. In history class, during their Ancient Greek unit, Mrs. Mothma said something about Ichor, once, a thing that Gods drink—he thinks it might taste something like this. Sweet-honey, and cream, and a distinctive taste he cannot name, save for with hers: Mama. _Mama’s taste_.

It only takes a few more heady draws until he’s rutting against his own pantleg in the sinful denim vee where his legs are all awkwardly tangled together, trying to find enough space. He groans, and Mama’s hand leaves his hair, brushing down his chest. Ben jumps when he feels her hand on the hardness of him, warm through his jeans.

“Puppy! You’re all pent up,” she says. He can hear the sadness coloring her voice. _Long day at school, longer day without her, poor baby, poor boy_. “Let me make you feel good. ”

Ben nearly swoons into her chest; she’s trying to unbutton his jeans with one hand, clumsily messing around with the brass rivet, and then Ben can’t take it one more secon. His mouth makes a soft, slick _pop_ as it leaves her and he barely has to glance over his flushed cheeks to jam both hands down to his button, fly, thumb open, unzip. Her hand is hot and tiny and aimless in his as he takes it and slips beneath the elastic of his waistband, and she grasps the stiffness of him immediately, competent. Ben whuffs a sigh of relief; sometimes Mama needs a little guidance.

She’s leaking everywhere now without the pressure of his mouth, her milk, her ichor, pushing out in little pale rivulets that shine slick on the swell of her breast and down her ribcage the in the afternoon light. Ben runs his tongue behind his teeth, licks back drool, lets himself savor this second with glazed over eyes.

This is when she’s most beautiful, he thinks. Truly: Ben Solo is the luckiest guy in the world. Mama loves him more than anyone, just as he loves her, and this is _true_. He wonders, snide, thumbing away a taste of her milk, sucking the sweetness thoughtfully from his fingertip, if Hux has this. If he could _ever_ have this, a love so complete it makes Ben’s stomach ache and head pound.

“Take a picture, baby,” Mama huffs, shaking her head self-consciously, hooking a hand in his hair again. “It’ll last longer.”

 _Always so shy_. Too pretty and sweet for her own good. On the other hand, Ben feels absurdly smug, confident, victorious, even; he’s smiling as he rises to meet her challenge, overwhelms her again with his too-big hands and presses her back against the car seat so he can take his god-given mouthful. He bites Mama, getting the flow running lustily again, and she squeaks, but gets the message, starts to take long pulls at his cock. Ben moans with abandon, eyes rolling back behind his thin, trembling eyelids: Mama knows exactly what gets him off. Designed it, even, _because, Baby,_ _it’s my job_. Been taking care of Ben since he knew what pleasure was, no looking back.

There’s the distant growl of a car. They huddle and still, but don’t stop, can’t; Ben is burning alive. He takes huge, wide laps across the pink nub of her nipple, just to make her shiver, then nuzzles deeper than ever, coaxing her wetter, sweeter, softer. An old Toyota telescopes huge into their side mirror and then past it, away, chugging along on a deadbeat engine, but neither of them see it. Her hand keeps pumping, twisting, her rough palm so familiar that it’s as if it was his own. His preferences, learned and conditioned to painful-lovely perfection.

She gives him a few more brisk pulls, and he feels his orgasm coiling in his belly like a snake.

“Momma,” he grunts “Gonna come.”

Mama noses into his dark, curly hair. “Don’t worry, baby, you can make a mess. We’ll clean it up,” she whispers. “I’ll take care of you.”

And that’s enough. He comes in thick, white stripes onto her hand the cotton of his t-shirt, the corner of his jacket, lips parting from her to clench and gnash with a face screwed up all tight with the intensity of his orgasm. His _satiation_.

Once he’s empty, the car quiet save for their loud breathing, he slumps back into his seat, dizzy with the relief of release and the lack of the console digging into his side. Mama wipes her hand on his lap. Her breast is blushed crimson, red buds of bruises peppered around her swollen nipple. _Christ, it’s lewd_ ; Ben knows these bruises will go dark and tender in a matter of hours.

“Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He can still taste her. Mama just smiles, squeezing his knee, before holding up the grungy-grossness of her cum-slick hand into light, as if showing it off.

They laugh together at that hand, his spunk, quiet and breathless. Mama is golden, he thinks. Fuck all the rest. Then the world comes crashing back in: more cars, birds in the sycamore trees above, somebody’s lawnmower going a few houses down in some sad last attempt to manicure their yard before the snows come and lay down heavy on everything like a blanket. The world is there, one pane of laminated safety glass away, and Ben’s heart sinks.

He shrugs out of his jacket, graceless but quick, and wordlessly offers it to his Mama, who takes it. She hisses as it falls across her shoulders and down, rasping painfully against her tender chest; the sound is nearly enough to make Ben feel guilty and doggedly aroused again, all at once. The evidence of his mouth, bitten right into her. His. She pulls the tab up, and _zzip_. Covered now, overkill, completely drowned by the boxy frame of the leather beast with a ruched neck that comes all the way under her chin; she has to roll the cuffs twice before she can twist the key in the ignition and get hands working on the wheel. Even at sixteen, he’s so much bigger than his mother, it’s sick, it’s ridiculous and wrong.

Ben thinks this is only more proof to his cause: one day, he’ll take care of _her_. They’re on the road again, heading towards home. Mama leads them to the slow-stop of a red light, humming some pop song, off-tune, bobbing to a beat that Ben cannot hear, but loves on reflex. He takes her hand. The dirty one.

“I love you, Mommy,” he whispers, kissing the bitter taste of himself from her palm, so disgusting compared to her sweetness. He could survive on this forever, he thinks, sustain himself on nothing else. She says nothing, but smiles, curls a finger into the corner of his mouth; he sucks it clean.

Ben smiles back around it, sated. Fed.


End file.
